Category: Horror

Lawrence Martin closed the store at five-PM sharp. Normally he’d stay open until six or seven, give people a chance to pick up what they forgot to get on their way home from work. Sometimes people called with an emergency need: did he have any Enfamil? The generator’s out of gas, and I don’t have any credit cards. Could you open the pumps? Aly’s got one of her migraines again did he have an Excedrin? And his favorite, the grandkids are up and did he have any pistachio ice cream?

Not today.

Today he wanted to know more about Ms. Stacey Knox, recent major domo attorney, now country-bumpkin wannabe farmer. She wasn’t the one he was looking for but GrapeVine reported nothing related to his mission and he liked keeping his research muscles field-ready.

He turned the “Open” sign to “Closed,” set the pumps to credit only, turned on the obvious security system, made himself a cappuccino with the Pavoni, and carried it upstairs to his apartment.

He closed his bedroom door, drew the drapes, sat at his desk, and opened the main drawer. He took out a rather average looking Bic Clic, twisted the barrel, and clicked it.

Electronic filters bathed the building in normalized sound and shielded it from surveillance. A somewhat high-tech TV screen across the room came to life and the message “Cone of Silence establshed” shown on the screen.

Martin chuckled as he did every time that message popped up. Croyden always came up with interesting names for the gadgets his team put together. A bit much for tiny Acra, New York, but he didn’t argue when Croyden offered it to him. “Ever think of calling yourself ‘M’?”

Croyden always shook his head and smiled.

Outside and in back of his store with shopkeeper’s apartment above, the three satellite dishes changed their alignment such that they became a single, high-power receiving/sending station rather than standard C-band TV satellite dishes.

GrapeVine, another of Croyden’s gadgets, linked to The Bureau’s backend through some kind of “bounce-around-the-globe” relay.The high-tech TV screen blinked and “GrapeVine established” replaced the “Cone of Silence” message. Martin typed in wht little info he’d gathered on Stacey Knox.

GrapeVine returned a thousand page report.

Previous Fains I (A John Chance Mystery) Chapters

Chapters 5 and 6 had some minor rewrites, nothing worth reposting, which brings us to Chapter 7.

Tom stroked Frank Sinatra’s fur as Stacey exited the Station’s main gate. She glanced over and chuckled. “You’re approved of. He doesn’t give up his seat for anybody.”

Frank cushed Tom’s lap and fell asleep, his purrs almost as loud as the F-150’s AC. “Frank Sinatra, huh? If we had Gene Kelly, Ann Miller, and a couple of other hoofers we could make a movie. When did you get a cat? When did you get a truck? When did you get a farm? Feel free to answer in any order you’d like.”

“How come you were there when I made managing partner but not for my retirement party?”

“You retired a little suddenly, Sis. None of your emails ever mentioned antyhing about that.”

Stacey entered I-278 traffic. Frank stood up and looked out the window as if riding shotgun. Satisfied she handled the maneuver safely, he turned, cushed Tom’s lap again, settled back down, and continued his purr.

“Yeah, that kind of happened. Ingram alerted you back when I made partner?”

Tom smoothed Frank’s fur. “What kind of connections does he have he can get word to me through Navy channels and arrange for a 72-hour leave so I can come stateside, party-hardy, and get back in time for exercises?” Frank burrowed into Tom’s lap.

“I worked two months on a liability shield for Valdex Oil. They bought a fleet of single hulled tankers – ”

“And took up operations in the Gulf. Perfect targets for terrorist activity and environmental disasters. That was yours?”

“I spent nights finding double-hulled tankers they could afford. They didn’t want to hear about it, and that didn’t make sense.”

Frank opened his eyes, yawned, blinked at Stacey, and went back to sleep.

“So I had one of our people do some forensics. They hired us to create a liability shield, and hired a competitor to create an insurance trust.”

“They wanted a disaster?”

“Complete with parachutes and indemnities for everybody in the C-Suite.”

“Who’d take the hit?”

Stacey looked at him and pursed her lips.

“The investors?”

She raised her eyebrows.

“The investors and everybody else in the company?”

“Don’t forget all the oil giants Valdex transports for. It’ll make the ’70s energy crisis look like a day on the beach when it happens, and it will happen. They’re counting on it.”

“You gave up twenty-plus years of career building because of one client?”

“No, I gave up twenty-plus years of career building because of a fortune teller.”

Tom sared at his kid sister. His kid sister diligently kept her eyes on the road. Frank Sinatra opened his eyes and looked up at Tom.

Tom realized he stopped stroking Frank’s fur and started up again.

“Okay, tell me about the cat, the truck, the farm, and the fortune teller.”

Fank closed his eyes and the three of them continued north to Acra.

Previous Fains I (A John Chance Mystery) Chapters

Chapters 2 and 3 had some minor rewrites, nothing worth reposting, as on to chapter 4’s rewrite (which included a name change).

Vincent Quarrals watched Monique Modine exit Martin’s store from deep in the shadows of the Kristoffersen’s barn. Stacey Knox headed south a few minutes earlier.
He considered walking over when he saw her pull in, decided no. She seemed okay enough. He did a cursory read of her background at the state capital using what little Monique knew as a starting point, and something about Knox told him to go deep, go further, do some more reading beyond her litigation histories.
She bought the Campbell’s farm. He never noticed her in town before. What, did she come into town on a lark, saw a broken down farm badly in need of repair with a for-sale sign on it, and decided hot damn, that’s for me? One of the top lawyers in New York City decides to go country?
Bullshit. Only a flake would do that and she didn’t seem the flake type.
Did she even know the Campbell farm’s history?
Sad place if ever there was one.
The Campbells owned the farm since dirt was young. Al Senior, Al and Blanche’s father, never came back from Korea. MIA or POW or KIA nobody knew, and Mrs. Campbell did what she could to hold things together. They dirt farmed their small patch but that gave them enough for themselves and a little more. Kind-hearted neighbors, most of them farmers themselves, bought her overflow. She’d drop off baskets of produce and they’d return the baskets, often with new or at least not too worn clothes for her and the kids.
They raised chickens and pigs. Mrs. Campbell planned on selling off the livestock and Al had none of it. “We have two good breeder sows and all our hens are good layers. I can learn how to slaughter and get things to market. We do this right and we can grow the farm, Ma.”
Ballsy for a twelve-year old kid, but nobody knew what a head for business Al had. By the time he graduated high school he was one hell of a butcher. He handled chickens and pigs with razor sharp knifes and never made a mess. Quiet, quick, and clean, and he proud of it. Neighbors brought their livestock to him for slaughter. He smiled and only took some good cuts for payment.
Al was fourteen, Blanche twelve, and the widow Campbell gets a suitor. Within a year Mrs. Campbell is Mrs. Stockton and Gus Stockton, Mr. Chocolates and flowers and smiles when people are watching, is fists and belt and a water pipe when people can’t see.
Quarrals remembered his parents talking about Gus Stockton when they thought Vince slept, how Gus beat Al and Blanche, at least once beating Al unconscious. By now Blanche is becoming a woman and Gus found other uses for her.
And if Mrs. Stockton said anything?
She’d feel his fists and strop, too.
Just the memory sickened him.
And didn’t Acra grow quiet when Gus died in a freak farming accident, his boot laces caught in the lower fork of a grain elevator, his belt – the same one he used to strop his family – wrapped around one of the tynes, and the controls well out of reach.
Damn elevator tore him apart. Literally.
Vince, starting his teens by this time, still remembered how nervous, how jumpy, Al was when the State Police investigated.
Vince decided right there and then Acra needed its own law. Go to the state when there’s a need, but otherwise keep them out. Acra can take care of itself.
Which brought Vince right back to Stacey Knox. The last newcomer was Larry Martin, a nice guy, a small-time accountant in a Baltimore-based, two-man firm who sold out to his partner, evidently floundered for a while, came north with his cousin to fish the Fingers, saw something he liked and moved in.
And boy, talk about crossing Ts and dotting Is. Vince chuckled. Martin must have been one hell of an accountant the way he went over the paperwork when he bought Acra QuickStop.
Not that Vince could complain. He never had real genuine Italian cold cuts and that Jewish pastry stuff Martin shipped in?
He must be damn good at making connections to get the stuff he could get.
Take those satellite dishes out behind the store. Larry has a crew from the city put in three big satellite dishes so he can watch overseas soccer games and never got them to work right. Anybody asks if they can come watch and either the signal’s down or the dishes were blown out of alignment or raccoons ate through his cable and he’s waiting for a replacement.
Vince shook his head and chuckled.
Something squeaked behind him. He shone his flashlight in his driver’s side mirror. A weasel stared back at him with a young barn rat in its mouth.
He wondered what would’ve happened if he bought the Campbell place. Must’ve been cheap. Modine took her life in her hands every month she went in to make sure the electricity, plumbing, septic, well, and heat still worked. Next thing anybody knows she’s taking down the For Sale sign and one night well into dark a truck pulls up, a team gets out, goes to work, and by the time they leave you could eat off the floor. Fresh paint, fresh flooring, brand new wiring, brand new fixtures, good, solid furniture in the kitchen, bedrooms, dining room, and living room, and the rest of the house with enough furniture to be comfortable without getting in the way.
Who brings a crew in, probably more than one delivery truck, probably with lifting tailgates, does a makeover worthy of Discovery Channel and This Old House simultaneously, and gets in and out between some time near midnight and sunrise?
Quarrals mused.
Al could’ve done it.
He continued to grow the farm as a business all through high school. He received a scholarship to U of Wisconsin Racine, gets a degree in finance, comes back, converts one of the backrooms into an office, and puts a sign out front, Brunswick Investments.
Turned out Old Al had a knack for picking winners. He’d go up to RPI, SUNY-Albany, down to Maris, listen to students give their dissertations, and always picked which papers could turn into profitable businesses. He mortgaged the farm, financed winners, used that to buy back the farm, finance more winners, and bought up more and more land surrounding his farm.
Somebody asked him once why he was so land hungry.
“I’m kind of like Stalin. I only want the properties which are next to mine. By the way, yours for sale?
And every Saturday he slaughtered whatever of his livestock was ripe for market and whatever anybody else brought him.
“You’re so good with a knife, Al. Ever think of going to medical school? Becoming a surgeon?”
Al laughed. “You’re land for sale, by any chance?”
Things went well until Mrs. Stockton wandered off one day and nobody could find her. She’d been three sandwiches short of a picnic for a few years by that time and Blanche, god love her, wouldn’t let anybody else take care of her.
But then Mrs. Stockton wandered off and Blanche would have none of it.
She and Al left right when Vince received his discharge from the Marines. Rumor was Al shacked up with some woman in northern Maine and Blanche to some California nuts-and-berries, back-to-the-earth ashram. They left their property in different directions and neither looked back. The place rotted. The house didn’t need work, it needed to be razed, but some damn land investment group or some such bought it at state auction for back taxes and there you go.
The weasel ran out down a hole in the barn’s floorboard and Vince turned back to watching the comings and goings on Acra’s main thoroughfare. In the cool of the shade, in the quiet of the shadows, he nodded.

Previous Fains I (A John Chance Mystery) Chapters